


Things You Shouldn't Do at Christmas

by akissinacrisis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hate Sex, Het, Porn, Relationship(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-23
Updated: 2007-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akissinacrisis/pseuds/akissinacrisis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ginny reckons everyone sleeps with their ex once. Or twice. Don’t they? Harry/Ginny, rated Explicit, oneshot (in 2 parts). Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://pumpkinpasty.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://pumpkinpasty.livejournal.com/)**pumpkinpasty** for the best beta ever. Originally posted on Livejournal [here](http://kissesforcrises.livejournal.com/5813.html).

 

‘It’s been three _months_ , Hermione.’

Ginny’s best friend purses her lips at her from across The Burrow’s kitchen table.

‘Three months since we’ve had a proper conversation,’ continues Ginny. ‘Three months since we’ve been in a room alone together for more than thirty seconds. Two and a half months since I’ve had sex.’

Hermione raises her eyebrows.

‘He was a Muggle.’

Her expression doesn’t change.

‘I think his name was Jack,’ Ginny adds irritably.

‘A one-night stand?’

‘What?’ snaps Ginny. ‘You’re just jealous because the only person you’ve ever slept with is my brother. Oh, don’t give me that complacent happy-couple smile –’ Hermione attempts to modify her expression. ‘Some of us prefer a bit of _excitement_ in our lives – oh – oh, _God_.’ Breaking off abruptly, she slumps forwards onto the table; her wet hair falls out of the white towel she’d turbaned it in. ‘The only two people I’ve ever had sex with in my life: Harry and a Muggle called Jack.’

‘You didn’t do anything _wrong_ , Ginny,’ says Hermione. ‘Dangerous, maybe –’ Ginny groans. ‘But not wrong. You and Harry are broken up.’

Ginny groans again.

‘If you’re regretting it so much, then why did you do it?’

‘Why do you think?’ Ginny asks the table in a muffled voice. ‘Because I was confused and angry and _tired_ of all the post-break-up stuff. And because … well, even when me and Harry were falling apart, we were still … you know. Practically in silence, but still. It was still _sex_. Which I missed. Which I _miss_. And anyway,’ she says, looking up and changing the topic, ‘I _don’t_ regret it. I know I didn’t do anything wrong.’

Hermione’s eyes are sympathetic. ‘But you still feel guilty?’

‘No!’

‘Then why didn’t you tell me about it at the time? Why haven’t you done it again?’

‘Because,’ says Ginny primly, sitting up, ‘one-night stands are icky.’

‘Then why haven’t you been on a date? Why did you turn down whatever-his-name-was – Bradley?’

‘Relationships with one’s team members are unprofessional.’

‘Ginny. The Holyhead Harpies is an all-girls team.’

‘Fine, he’s on the Falcons,’ snaps Ginny. ‘ _And_ he’s gorgeous. I walked in on him changing once. I don’t know why I said no, OK?’ she retorts over Hermione’s attempt at another question. ‘I do feel guilty, all right? Old habits die hard. I _do_ feel guilty,’ she finishes morosely.

‘It’s only natural.’

‘No, it isn’t. I bet Harry doesn’t. I bet he’s shagging everything in sight.’

‘No, he isn’t.’

‘But he’s not being a monk, either, is he?’

Hermione pulls an awkward face. ‘Well …’

‘Don’t answer that. Oh, _why_ does he have to be here?’

‘Because it’s Christmas.’

‘Why don’t we just disown him? This is _my_ parents’ house. They should be on my side. He broke my heart.’

‘You broke up with him.’

‘Yeah, well,’ she says grumpily. ‘If I hadn’t done it, he would have. And it doesn’t mean that it hurts any less.’

‘Ginny,’ says Hermione kindly, ‘why, exactly, are we having this conversation? What was your point?’

‘My point _is,_ that … that, both being in this house until the twenty-eighth, we’re bound to have to talk to each other at least once.’

Hermione drums her fingers on the side of her mug of tea. ‘What have you got him for Christmas?’

‘Nothing. And he hasn’t got me anything, either, so don’t worry.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I went and told him not to get me anything, that’s why. Oh, come on,’ Ginny adds defensively at Hermione’s incredulous expression, ‘you know what he’s like. I went and told him not to bother getting me one because he’s an idiot – he needs someone to take care of him – he would have got himself into a dither about it, otherwise.’

Hermione shakes her head. ‘I thought you were over him.’

‘I am! It was a two-minute conversation at _most_. I went over to his, I said that we shouldn’t do presents for each other this year, he said OK, and I left. The end.’

‘Ginny, you don’t _need_ to take care of him anymore.’

‘Old habits,’ says Ginny wearily, rubbing her forehead. ‘I’ve gone out with him since I was sixteen.’

‘Seventeen,’ says Hermione softly.

‘Sixteen. I count the last year of the war.’

Hermione looks at her hopelessly.

‘I just …’ Ginny grimaces. ‘I just don’t want it to be awkward. Me and Harry – we should go _beyond_ awkwardness. He’s been a part of my life for too long for us to act like a broken-up couple.’ She drapes her towel around her shoulders like a cape and fiddles with the ends of her hair. ‘I want to get to the stage where we can be nice platonic friends and do things like vet each other’s new partners.’

Hermione snorts.

‘It could happen,’ says Ginny with irritation. ‘Not right now, but maybe in the foreseeable future –’

‘Hermione, what did you want me to take back to Ron’s – oh.’

Ginny jumps, violently: Harry is standing at the door to the kitchen, holding his cloak.

‘Harry! Oh, that’s right,’ says Hermione, flustered. ‘We brought the present for the wrong Percy – my cousin, Percy Granger – if you could take it back to ours and tell Ron to bring the correct one – it’s the big blue one, on the hall table.’

‘Right,’ says Harry, slinging his cloak over his shoulders. ‘Is that all? Cause I might be there for a while, so –’

‘You and Ron are doing _joint presents_?’ interrupts Ginny, revolted.

‘Yes. Why not?’ asks Hermione, unruffled. ‘We are living together, now. It’s far more practical. And cheaper.’

‘See you later, Hermione,’ says Harry. He turns to look at Ginny; suddenly, she is acutely aware that her hair is still wet and plastered to her head. ‘Hi, Ginny.’

She doesn’t comment on the ridiculousness of this belated greeting. ‘Hi, Harry.’

‘Well, see you later,’ he says, and turns and goes back into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

‘How about,’ says Hermione after a second, ‘you make it a New Year’s resolution? You two will be completely un-awkward by … this time next year?’

‘Too optimistic,’ groans Ginny, letting her head flump back down onto the table.

 

 

 

 

‘So,’ says Hermione, curling her feet up under her and into her armchair, ‘who’s coming on Christmas Day?’

It is the evening, and those members of the second generation who are staying at The Burrow for Christmas are gathered in the living room.

‘Bill, Fleur, Charlie, Percy, Frances, various babies,’ reels off Ron from where he sits on the floor as he dips a quill into an ink pot with a flourish, ‘Andromeda and Teddy. Who’s this one for, again?’

‘Bill,’ she answers, rolling her eyes. ‘How about checking who the present’s for before you wrap it?’

‘Wait,’ says Ginny from the sofa, ‘aren’t Andromeda and Teddy coming to stay on Christmas Eve? So we can do Father Christmas together?’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ says George, from where he’s reading a book called _Making it Grande: Expanding Your Business into Europe and Beyond_ by the fire. ‘This Muggle book is absolute pants, Ron.’

‘Read chapter fourteen,’ says Ron without looking up from the big red-paper-wrapped box in front of him. ‘When you tag presents, do you write “Happy Christmas”?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake –’ says Hermione, lunging out of her chair.

‘Look, I can do it, I just want to know if –’

‘Surprise, surprise, Ron: it doesn’t matter _what_ you write on the present, but if you’re going to spend half an hour on each one –’

‘No one else, then?’ asks Harry. ‘Is Kingsley spurning our company this year?’

‘You tell us, he’s your boss,’ says George. ‘I think Mum invited Neville, when she found out that his Great-Great-Aunt, or whatever she is, is going to be in Morocco, but apparently he’s going out to spend Christmas with her. Or he’s spending it with Luna, or something. I’ve forgotten.’

‘He’s going to Morocco,’ says Ginny. ‘I saw him last week. And I was the one who invited him. It’s a good thing he can’t come, though,’ she adds on the destructive impulse that led her to crash into Zacharias Smith after a Quidditch match and to hate everything Cho Chang does and to write back to a talking diary, ‘because I’m sure _someone_ wouldn’t have been happy if he’d turned up here.’

As Ron and Hermione fall silent and stop fighting, Ginny realises that, as usual, she should have reigned in the impulse.

‘What do you mean, Ginny?’ asks Hermione. ‘What’s the problem with Neville?’

‘Yes,’ says Harry pointedly. Making the mistake of glancing up, she sees him glowering at her from the other side of the room. ‘What _do_ you mean, Ginny?’

‘Nothing, nothing, I didn’t say anything,’ she says quickly. ‘I’m going to check on the mince pies –’ Leaping out of her chair, she darts into the kitchen, avoiding his gaze.

After a good ten minutes of leaning against the kitchen door and trying to calm down, she returns to the living room to find Ron labelling presents under the watchful eye of Hermione. George has gone back to reading.

‘Where’s Harry?’

‘Stormed off,’ says Ron. ‘Are you going to tell us what that was about, or –?’

‘Don’t, Ron,’ says Hermione.

‘What? I’m just wondering what Neville’s got to do with anything –’

‘Nothing,’ says Ginny tiredly. ‘Neville’s got nothing to do with anything.’ She leans against the doorframe. ‘Sorry. Sorry, that was – I shouldn’t have said anything –’

‘I thought you two were over months ago,’ says George, turning a page.

‘We were. We are. I just – it’s being in the same house as each other – I’ve barely spoken to him since September –’ She covers her face in her hands. ‘God. I’m sorry. That was stupid – it’s just that he gets me so _angry_ – no. Sorry. Sorry you had to see that. Sorry it happened.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Ginny, it was nothing,’ says Ron, waving a hand; Hermione snatches up the inkpot before he knocks it over. ‘It didn’t even make any sense. Better that you get it out of your system now, rather than a huge, Christmas-dinner-throwing row in four days’ time in front of Mum and Andromeda.’

George snorts. ‘I wouldn’t tempt fate like that if I were you, little brother. Something is telling me you’re going to be the one who gets the pudding thrown in his face.’

‘ _No_ ,’ snaps Ginny, ‘there’s not> going to be a huge row. At _any_ point. We _are_ over. I was just being silly.’

‘It seemed pretty silly,’ Ron says. ‘Although – Harry wasn’t intimidated by _Neville_ , was he?’

She closes her eyes wearily. ‘No. Neville was just a symptom,’ she says, using Harry’s phrase of September, ‘not the cause.’

Ron shrugs; George goes back to his book.

‘I’m …’ she starts awkwardly. ‘I’ll go upstairs and unpack a bit more …’

‘Are you all right, Ginny?’ Hermione’s gaze is concerned.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit tired.’

‘Dinner’s at eight,’ says Ron. ‘I’m harnessing the heights of my culinary talents to cook you all my speciality.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Omelette.’

Ginny forces a laugh, leaves the room and starts to climb the dark stairs up to the first floor. She _does_ need to unpack, as she’s going to be here for another six days – but not as much as she needs to lie down and clear her head. _Stupid prick_ , she thinks as she crosses the dim landing towards her old bedroom door, _storming off just because I made some tiny comment about_ –

‘You don’t seriously still believe that Neville had anything to do with it, do you?’

She spins around to see Harry standing in a shadowy corner of the landing with his arms folded.

‘Fucking hell, Harry, what the fuck was that for?’ she snaps, heart beating fast. ‘Why the _hell_ are you standing in the corner like a vampire?’

He regards her coldly. ‘Do you?’

‘Do I what?’

‘Still think that _Neville_ had anything to do with anything.’

‘You’re the one that had the huge problem with me and him spending time together over the summer. What the hell was I supposed to think?’ Crossing to her door and turning the knob, she thinks that she really can’t be bothered with this, right now, three months after the break-up; it’s a shame that the blood thrumming in her veins begs to differ. She pushes at the door. ‘You were – absolutely _pathetic_ about Neville, so don’t even try and deny it – and anyway, this is months-old news, so – so get _over_ it –’

He reaches over and grabs her shoulder; she freezes. ‘We broke up,’ he bites out, ‘because we weren’t _talking_ anymore, because all you were doing was nagging all the time and because I didn’t know what I wanted and yes, because you were spending all of your time with other people – but that was more of a symptom than a –’

‘Than a cause, yeah, yeah, I remember,’ she says, bitter, now, that she had repeated this as the truth downstairs.

‘We would have fallen apart without any help from other people.’

‘Piss off,’ she snaps, shaking him off her and walking into her room; she’s suddenly desperate for him to be gone, away from her, out of this house – for him to not _exist_ anymore –

‘Well, do you believe me?’ he asks, following her in.

‘ _Please_ go away.’

‘All I’m trying to say,’ he says fiercely, grabbing her arm again and making her spin around, ‘is that it had _nothing_ to do with Neville Longbottom. But if you want to keep believing that we broke up because I was being childish and possessive, then fine, keep deluding yourself.’

‘Shut up,’ she mutters fiercely, wrenching her arm out of his grip and giving him a shove at his shoulders: in shock, he takes a step backwards and the back of his legs hit her mattress. Without a second thought, she pushes him again so that he falls onto her bed, slams the door shut, climbs up on top of him and straddles his chest.

‘Ginny – what –’

‘We’re going to do it. Just once, OK? Once more. Just a fuck. And then it’s over.’

His eyes are dark. ‘We are?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because you say so?’

‘I don’t see you complaining.’

‘This is stupid,’ he says, his brows furrowed and brooding. ‘Don’t be so –’

‘Shut up,’ she mutters again, leaning right over, and oddly enough, he does fall silent as her face draws close to his. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she ducks down and kisses him lightly.

Her lips graze his, but before she can pull away, his hands cup her face and draw it closer. Angling his head, he pushes his tongue past her lips; she moans as his hands move into his hair. His kisses become lighter as his hands slide down her body and around her waist, smoothing over her hipbones and sweeping under her jumper and up her back. His fingers press into her shoulder blades and her back arches.

They break apart. His eyes are dark. ‘Ginny –’

‘Shh,’ she says. His gaze darts across her face but he says nothing.

Dropping back down, she kisses his somehow both soft and rough lips again; as she parts his lips, she feels herself shifting from his chest to his lap as slowly, he sits up.

Their kiss is messy, and slobbery, and horrible and perfect, but as she angles her head again, her brow bone bashes into his glasses frame, and his head jolts back – _Oh God oh God I’ve forgotten how to kiss a boy with glasses_ –

_I’ve forgotten how to kiss Harry_.

They are disconnected; with an angry mewl, she grabs his glasses, gets them caught on his ear, finally wrenches them off his face and flings them onto the floor.

He looks at her, and for a second, she thinks he’s going to laugh.

‘Dinner’s in half an hour,’ she murmurs, wriggling against him a little ferociously in order to wipe the half-smirk from his face, ‘so we’ll have to be quick.’

‘I think I can manage that,’ he gasps. Sliding his hands up the front of her jumper, he cups her breasts over her bra.

‘I know you can,’ she whispers with a smirk of her own, before removing his hands from up her top and pushing him back onto the bed. ‘Lie still.’ Sitting up, she pulls her jumper and her t-shirt over her head and drops them on the floor with the debris of her unpacking. Shifting off him and onto the bed, she pulls her skirt up from her hips to her waist, where it flaps loosely, and with slightly trembling hands, tugs off her grey wool tights. ‘That’s better,’ she says, crawling back on top of him with bare legs, this time placing herself on his crotch.

‘Ginny –’ He tries sitting up, but she catches his shoulders again and pushes him back down onto the bed.

‘Don’t.’

His eyes are burning. ‘Don’t do this, Ginny.’

‘Do what?’ she asks with a salacious grin, starting to grind her hips against his.

He groans and his head falls back onto her faded flowery pillow.

‘Do you like that, Harry?’ she asks, trying not to laugh as his hips twitch. His Adam’s apple is protruding in his sweaty neck.

‘I hate you, Ginny,’ he rasps, and this time, she does laugh, delightedly, feeling oddly ecstatic. ‘ _Fuck_ ,’ he hisses and God Ginny remembers how Harry rarely swears unless he’s with her, and then he does it all the time, and how _gorgeous_ it is –

Arousal is starting to cloud her senses. ‘Why are you still dressed?’ she mutters. ‘Why –’

‘Considering,’ he says with a gasp, ‘that I’m not allowed to _touch_ anything –’

She crawls off him again and tugs at the button on his trousers. On her hands and knees, her breasts trying to spill from her bra, she pulls his trousers and boxers down, freeing his erection. Shifting his legs to help get them off, he sits right up and reaches for her body again; his hand is almost on the catch of her bra before she notices. ‘No,’ she says, slapping his hand away; before he can protest, she pushes him back down onto the bed and climbs on top of him again.

Arching her back, she throws her head back as she starts to rock against him; with a muttered oath, he slides his hands up her thighs, under her skirt and onto her sweaty hips.

‘Take – take them off,’ he pants, plucking at her knickers.

‘In a minute.’ She grinds against his cock.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ he rasps. ‘Fucking hell, Ginny –’

He strains against her and she gasps with pleasure as his pubic bone hits her clitoris. Reaching behind her, she undoes her bra clasp and throws the bra off. Automatically, his hands reach upwards to cup her exposed breasts. She slaps them away. ‘No.’

‘Gin, stop – _oh_ ,’ he breaks off with as she starts to rock in earnest. ‘Oh – oh – _fuck_.’

‘Mmm, that feels nice …’ She closes her eyes and smiles.

‘Damn it, Gin, take them _off_ –’

‘Patience,’ she gasps, ‘is a virtue –’

‘And what your family will do to me if they – _God_ – catch us doing this – oh fuck fuck – _fuck_!– will not be virtuous –’

‘Are you scared, Harry?’ she asks, grinning down at him as she twitches her hips into a figure of eight.

‘There are – brothers – downstairs –’ He trails off into unintelligible muttering as his eyes shut and his hips start to pump against hers.

Oh, that feels good, Harry thrusting up against her, and it makes her all the more desperate to get him inside her – but no. Not yet. With a slow sigh, she tosses her head back again and reaches up to touch her own breasts: testing their weights, she cups them and flicks her thumbs across her nipples –

‘Gin – let me –’

‘No, Harry,’ she says softly. ‘Mmm –’ She works her hips as fast as she can, making him swear even more violently – ‘God, that feels good –’

‘ _Please_ –’ His hips are bucking frantically now, his hands twisted into the covers –

‘ _Yes_ , Harry …’ She’s panting now and her hips and thighs are moving completely of their own accord; she’s dimly aware of a bead of sweat making it’s way down the side of her face. ‘ _Yes_ …’

‘I swear to – if we don’t – I’m too close –’

Without saying anything, she kneels up and pulls her knickers down; by sitting down on his thighs and kicking her legs to the side – side-saddle, she thinks deliriously – she manages to get them off.

Flinging them across the room, she grabs his cock and positions herself in silence, but as she sinks down onto him, she gasps.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ he groans.

‘Fuck,’ she agrees breathily.

For a second, they are still, breathing heavily, completely together.

With her hands on his waist, she pushes herself up slowly and lets herself sink down again. Then, with a mingled groan, they’re gone –

They rediscover the old, familiar rhythm in a matter of moments, Ginny working her hips as he strains beneath her. With a shuddering gasp, she leans forwards and he catches her hands with his so she has something to put her weight on –

‘If you –’ she gasps as his thrusts grow even clumsier, ‘come first –’

‘Won’t –’ he manages, face screwed up, hands gripping hers fiercely.

‘You better not – _oh_ …’ His pubic bone hits her clit again and she moans. ‘ _Harry_ …’

‘Are you,’ he pants, ‘close?’

‘Mmm …’

He pushes her upright again and she lets go of his hands and tosses her head back; before she can protest, one of his hands is toying with her right breast, thumb flicking the nipple, and the other has crept between them to rub at her clitoris.

It does the trick: under his ministrations, she comes, and with a shriek and huge shiver, she collapses on top of him.

He doesn’t say anything, but with a groan, he speeds up his hips until she’s bouncing against his chest limply and all she can do is hang on until he finds his climax. It doesn’t take long: after another minute, he clutches at her back and his irregular thrusts stop.

Sated, they lie still. She wonders for how long she can get away with sprawling on his still-t-shirt-clad torso.

His eyes are closed and his breathing deep and even; she would think he were asleep were it not for the hand stroking light circles onto her lower back.

Her eyes close against his shoulder. She could fall asleep right now, she thinks drowsily as her thoughts drift off; just curl up in the curve of his angular body and sleep the whole night through …

‘Oi! You two!’ shouts Ron from downstairs. ‘Dinner!’

 

 

 

 

‘I had sex with Harry last night.’

Hermione, leaning against the kitchen counter, freezes in the act of stirring her morning mug of tea.

The birds’ chirping outside suddenly seems very loud to Ginny.

‘When?’ asks Hermione eventually.

‘Before dinner.’

Hermione’s eyebrows once again shoot up into her hair. ‘When you went up to … unpack?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’ Hermione blinks. ‘How …’

‘Messy,’ says Ginny. She clears her throat and looks down at the table. ‘It was a bit messy.’

She glances up to see Hermione looking slightly repulsed. ‘That wasn’t what I was going to ask.’

‘Oh.’ With a blush, Ginny looks back down at the table.

‘So … are you two … back together?’

Ginny shakes her head vehemently. ‘Not in the slightest.’

There is a silence in which Ginny desperately wishes she had a different best friend.

‘Oh, Ginny.’ Hermione is somehow managing to look more distressed than Ginny feels. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘I don’t know. We just _did_. You’re not – you don’t –’ Ginny doesn’t know how to phrase it. ‘You’re not disappointed, are you?’

‘What for?’

‘That we’re not … back together.’

‘I think I finally worked out that it would be better if you and Harry _didn’t_ work it out the night you threw all those coins at his head. In that pub in Wimbledon, remember?’

Ginny cringes. ‘Yes.’

‘Why was that, again?’

‘I think …’ Ginny casts her memory back. ‘Because he was insisting we go home and I wanted to stay, but he was so drunk he needed to be Apparated home, but he was getting all arse-y about me staying without him, so I told to get a cab home, and _then_ he asked to borrow some money, as he was doing _all the time_ , because he didn’t think it mattered, even though it _did_ , so I threw all my coins at his head and screamed at him to get the Muggle bus.’ She cringes again. ‘Must have been a bit of a party killer.’

‘A little bit,’ Hermione concedes. ‘So … what happens now?’

‘ _Nothing_. It was a one-time-only event. And now, we are completely and utterly finished. Right?’ Ginny looks up for a response. ‘I mean, people have sex with their exes all the time, right?’

Hermione stirs her tea. ‘The Americans call it “closure”.’

‘What’s the British equivalent?’

‘There isn’t one.’

‘So what do we call it?’

‘“Closure” with inverted commas?’

Ginny puts her head in her hands. She’s getting used to staring at this table.

‘Does it feel like closure?’

‘ _Yes_ ,’ says Ginny. ‘Me and Harry are now very much _closed_.’

‘Good.’

‘And now we can all get on with our lives. And Christmas.’

‘All right, then.’

 

 

 

 


	2. Part 2

 

 

 

 

The thing about the coldness of a December in the Scottish Highlands, Ginny thinks as she trudges through the snow covering the Hogwarts grounds on Christmas Eve, is that it would be much more bearable if her ears were covered.

Also, if one of the four of them were speaking.

‘Cold,’ says Ron. Harry and George nod.

Hermione is inside, with McGonagall and Ginny’s parents. That had been the reason they’d all turned up here, originally – ‘We must all go and wish Minerva a Merry Christmas,’ her mother had hissed, ‘they say she’s retiring at the end of this year –’ but once the conversation had turned onto Hermione having to explain to McGonagall just what Hogwarts was expected to _do_ exactly without the free labour of the house-elves, Ron had gestured towards the door, indicating that if he felt it was perfectly acceptable to abandon his girlfriend, then they were all free to bugger off.

Now, Ginny’s parents are touring the school, and Harry, Ron, George and Ginny are wandering the grounds.

Mistakenly, in Ginny’s opinion.

She’s always been more of a summer person.

‘But better out than in,’ Ron continues sagely. ‘I’ve seen those two go at it before. We could be here for hours. I’ve got no wish to stand around and watch McGonagall do the “devil’s advocate” thing.’

‘Is Hermione passing a new law about house-elves?’ asks Ginny, more for something to say.

‘Trying to,’ says Ron.

There’s another silence. Ginny wonders whether Ron and George are as uncomfortable as she is, and if so, why. If Hermione’s told Ron any of what Ginny had told her two days ago, she’s going to kill her.

‘Suit yourself,’ mutters Harry. ‘I’d prefer to be inside than out here.’

Ron mock-shudders. ‘I don’t like wandering the castle anymore. Filch keeps popping up all over the place. It’s like being a kid again. It gives me the creeps.’

George nods. ‘A lot of memories in these walls.’

After another pause, Harry speaks. ‘I’m going back inside. It’s too cold. I’ll see you later?’

The three of them stop in the snow and nod.

Harry adjusts his scarf. ‘Ginny, will you come with me?’

Ron’s eyebrows rise. Ginny wonders whether he picked the expression up from Hermione, or whether it was the other way around.

‘Fine, then,’ she mumbles, and together, the two of them hike up towards the castle.

Upon entering the Entrance Hall, the snow on their clothes starts to melt. A gentle chatter is coming from the Great Hall, but Ginny doesn’t want to be around other people. Watching small puddles drip from their clothes and onto the stone floor beneath them, Ginny wonders if what Ron said about Filch is true.

Harry starts up the marble staircase; Ginny follows him.

Finally, up the stairs and walking down a corridor, he speaks. ‘We should talk.’

‘About what?’ she mutters through her scarf.

‘About what happened three days ago.’ She realises that their footsteps are leading them to the Gryffindor common room.

‘Why?’

‘It was stupid.’

‘Why?’

He shoots her an incredulous look. ‘Because if we do things like that, we’ll never …’

‘Never what?’

He snorts humourlessly. ‘I was going to say “be friends”, but maybe I’m being naïve. That’s clearly not what you want.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asks, stung. ‘I didn’t … I don’t …’

‘Don’t what?’ he asks, a little aggressively.

‘ _Don’t_ want us to never speak to each other again, but if you’re going to be like this …’

‘Because you’ve shown a real enthusiasm for the idea of our friendship,’ he mutters darkly.

‘I didn’t see you making an effort!’

‘Only because you’ve made it so bloody difficult.’

‘Diffi—?’ She stops in the middle of the corridor, before realising that they’ve managed to wander straight to the portrait hole. ‘I haven’t gone out of my way to prevent us from –’

She stops when she sees the Fat Lady watching them, beady eyes flicking between their faces.

They give the password – _chestnuts_ – and clamber into the familiar and – mercifully – empty room. ‘Then what was that whole “don’t get me a Christmas present” thing about?’ he demands, eyes flashing and throwing his scarf onto an armchair. ‘What the hell was that about?’

‘I was trying to make it _easier_ for you,’ she retorts, following him on his almost automatic journey up the stairs to the boys’ dormitories.

‘Wow, thanks, Gin. I really appreciate that.’

‘I was trying to make it easier for _both_ for us,’ she says hotly. ‘And don’t call me that.’

‘What?’ he asks as they emerge into the corridor.

‘ _Gin_. Don’t say that.’

‘You’re so –’ he explodes. ‘I can’t do anything right – there’s no way we’re going to be able to make any kind of _friendship_ work if you insist on telling me off for every single little thing I do – it was like going out with a _professor_ sometimes –’

‘If you hadn’t insisted on acting like a child!’ she almost shouts. ‘You were obsessive about who I was hanging around with, you didn’t know whose money was whose –’

He groans. ‘Always the money.’

‘Yes, the money!’ she shouts, almost hysterically. ‘It might not mean that much when you can – when you can splash around whatever you want – but it does to me!’

‘Gin – Gin _ny_ , sorry – you’re hardly broke.’

‘That doesn’t matter! It wouldn’t have mattered if I were captain of the English side – _it was my money_ , and as you refused to get a joint vault –’

‘But you didn’t pay rent! You were living with me practically for free –’

‘Because you wouldn’t _let_ me!’ she almost shrieks, horrified to feel the tremor in her nose that always precedes tears. ‘You let me _live_ there for more than a year, all my clothes there, my friends coming round to see me there, but you refused to talk about me moving in officially, paying half the rent –’ She breaks off and takes a great, shuddering gasp. ‘I felt like I was homeless, and you wouldn’t _talk_ about it.’

‘It wasn’t that simple, Ginny,’ he says, rolling his eyes, and thus dismissing her emotions into one mad ball of female hysteria. ‘I was mainly paying for that place with the money Sirius left me – I still am – so why would I have accepted your actually-earned money? Plus, you couldn’t have managed to pay half the rent on that place, and you know it.’

‘Then you should have moved! _We_ should have moved!’

‘All because you had a desire to feel financially useful, when you didn’t _need_ to be – when neither of us needed to be? – Look, just accept that the money had nothing to do with _anything_.’

‘Oh, just forget it.’ She closes her eyes. ‘We’ve had this fight before.’

‘Well, God knows that’s never stopped you before,’ he snaps. ‘You’d make anything into a fight just to get a chance to scream and shout a bit.’ Moving away from her abruptly, he goes and opens the door now marked FIFTH YEARS. He stares into the room, and snorts again. ‘Do you see why we’re never going to end up friends?’

For a suspicion she’s had for months, it hurts far more than it should. ‘Don’t.’

‘It’s too difficult. We should – we should just leave it,’ he says haggardly, still staring into the dormitory. ‘Give up.’

‘Stop, Harry.’

‘It causes us stress,’ he continues forcefully, ‘and if it causes us so much fucking _pain_ – you can’t even hear me say this, even though you know it’s true –’

She pushes him into the dormitory and slams the door shut behind them. The room is pristine and trunk-less – all of its inhabitants must have gone home for Christmas. ‘Shut up,’ she barks, hoping her desperation isn’t showing. ‘Just – shut up.’

He eyes the way her hands are still splayed on the door. ‘If you want me to.’

‘I do,’ she murmurs, eyes flicking over his face as she advances on him. ‘I do, I –’

With something between a flutter and a crash, their bodies meet and their lips lock themselves onto each other’s; quickly, her hands find their way into his hair and his use her waist to pull her up flush against him. She gasps as she feels his erection pressed into her stomach; fiercely, he swallows her gasp with a bruising kiss, hurriedly tugging at her scarf until it comes off. Once he’s undone the buckle on her cloak and let it fall to the floor, his hands start to roam: one fists its way into her hair and the other sweeps up her back. Her hips twitch lightly against the hardness she can feel through their clothes.

He yanks their heads apart. ‘Don’t tease,’ he rasps.

‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,’ she retorts; with a growl, he grabs her by the shoulders and pushes her towards one of the beds. She lands with a sprawl and a creak of springs.

Frantically pushing her hair out of her eyes, she sees him standing at the end of the bed, staring at her with unreadable eyes.

The way her body alters is automatic: the hand pushing her hair out of her face starts to fluff it, instead; the hand she’s using to prop herself up edges further back so that she can lean back on it and give him her own arrogant look; her shoulders straighten and her chest juts out. Pathetic, really, but the fact is that she can’t _not_ act that way when Harry’s staring at her like _that_.

A slow smirk spreads across his features. ‘Take off your clothes.’

‘What?’ she squawks.

‘Take off your clothes.’

‘Why don’t you make me?’

‘You’ll do it yourself,’ he says evenly. ‘Because if you don’t, I’m leaving.’

She sticks her chin in the air. ‘Fine, then.’

He shrugs slightly and turns around and walks towards the door with quick, even steps. He stops at the door. His hand is on the doorknob – he’s turning it – the door’s opening and he’s moving again –

‘Fine!’ she snaps irritably, sitting up; he turns around and shuts the door with a grin that he doesn’t bother to conceal. ‘Fine, then.’ She wrenches off her jumper and with shaking hands moves to the buttons on her shirt and starts to try and get them out of their holes –

‘Take your time,’ he says.

Her hands still. Why doesn’t she turn this to her advantage? _If he wants a strip-tease_ –

She stands up and walks confidently over to him. ‘Why don’t you just sit –’

‘Oh, no.’ He catches her arms with his and his eyes bore into hers as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking. ‘Oh, no. You’ll do what I say, when I say it.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because …’ Slowly, he draws her body up against his, curling one hand around her neck and resting one predatorily on her lower back. ‘Because you want to,’ he whispers in her ear. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten, Ginny … you love it when you’re told what to do.’

It was true. She used to love it, when he took control – but he’d never done it quite like _this_.

‘Come on, Ginny,’ he murmurs, sliding both hands around her hips and onto her front; slowly, he starts to rub circles onto her hipbones with his thumbs. ‘Say you’ll do what I say.’

‘I won’t,’ she whispers.

‘Go on, Gin …’ One of his hands, she realises with a jolt, is sliding her jeans button out of its hole and is easing the zip down; the other is slowly creeping up her back and into her hair again. ‘Promise to follow my orders …’ His hand starts to twine her hair around his fingers.

‘No,’ she says, shaking her head and closing her eyes.

He’d even punished her, once – tied her hands up, told her she’d been a bad girl, teased her, the whole malarkey. She’d never been more turned on. But he hadn’t seemed to be _enjoying_ it. Not in the way he is now.

‘No?’ he whispers with a laugh; with another jolt, she realises that his hand is sliding down between her legs, now, inside her jeans and over her knickers. His thumb brushes firmly against her and she can feel herself quivering. ‘But, Ginny, you _want_ to …’ He bends his head down to her ear. ‘You’re _dripping_ for me.’

‘I am _not_ ,’ she says with a squirm, but then his finger, slightly cool, slips inside her knickers and she gasps –

‘No?’ he asks again, still amused. ‘You’re not?’

She doesn’t say anything, only rests her head on his shoulder and tries to stop her legs from shaking.

‘Take off your shirt,’ he murmurs.

‘No,’ she whispers as her hands go back to her buttons and slowly, but not as slowly as she should, she undoes them all and lets the stupid thing drop to the floor.

‘Well done,’ he mutters, nipping at her ear; she moans. ‘Now, take off your bra and your jeans.’

She does it quicker, this time: unclasping her bra from behind, she drops it onto the floor with her shirt and swiftly, she pulls her jeans down and kicks them and her trainers off completely.

Before she can touch him, he takes a step back. His eyes rove her nearly-naked form. ‘Knickers off.’

Feeling far more vulnerable, now, she nevertheless pushes her knickers down and onto the floor; as she steps out of them, she lifts a foot to remove one of her socks –

‘Leave them,’ he says, with the same amusement in his tone. She wonders, for a second, if he’s gone mad; then, she wonders if there’s something wrong with her feet.

She rests her foot on the ground, and he surveys her again with that critical gaze. ‘Put your shirt back on.’

Still, she doesn’t say anything. Not wanting to bend right over and knowing that’s exactly what he wants, she crouches down into some kind of squat and picks up the white shirt. Slowly, she slides it back over her arms and onto her shoulders. It’s cool and soft against her breasts.

‘The buttons,’ he says softly, as soft as the cotton shirt, and almost as close: looking up, she sees him crouching in front of her. He’s shed his own shoes and socks – she can see his toes – and his jumper and cloak, and he’s in front of her in just his jeans and his grey-green t-shirt and his glasses and green eyes and hair black as night and he’s _Harry Harry Harry_ – only he isn’t, not really, not with that inexpressive face –

His hands brush her breasts firmly as he deliberately fumbles with her buttons. Once he’s finally finished doing them all up, he smoothes her hair off her face.

‘You won’t go to the bed if I tell you to, will you?’ he says softly.

‘No.’

‘I’ll just have to carry you, then.’ He gathers her up into his arms and as her pliant white-shirt-and-sock-clad body falls against his chest, she wonders whether this is some kind of bizarre fantasy of his, or whether he’s just exerting control by making her do something slightly ridiculous. She decides it must be something to do with her feet.

He lays her on the scarlet velvet cover of the four-poster bed, propping her up against the pillows, and crawls up onto the mattress himself on his knees. He moves up the bed until their faces are close: his eyes study her features. He runs a thumb along her lower lip; her tongue darts out to touch it. ‘Do you want me to kiss you?’ he asks.

Ginny knows how to play the game. ‘Yes, please.’

His lips against hers are almost tentative, which Ginny refuses to stand: angling her head, she opens her mouth and crashes her tongue against his. Immediately, his stance and his kiss change in order to beat her into submission. Falling into the fight, her hands reach up to thread their way into his hair – but he grabs her wrists.

He breaks free of the kiss. ‘I didn’t say you could do that.’ He puts her hands back at her sides. ‘I’m the only one doing the touching.’

He slides his hands up the sides of her body, over the shirt, to cup her breasts and squeeze her nipples; their red hardness blushes through the thin cotton. Smirking, his hands trace down, smoothing over her sides, her hips, her thighs, and then they slide up, thumbs inching towards her dark red curls. ‘Where do you want me to touch you, Ginny?’

She moans a little.

‘You want me to touch you here?’ His fingers are easing through her curls and lower, lower, down between her legs … ‘Is that what you want?’

‘Yes,’ she gasps.

‘Like this?’ He cups her and gently moves his fingers through the sopping wetness; she nods her head frantically. ‘You want me to fuck you with my fingers?’

‘ _Yes_ –’

He pushes his thumb firmly against her clitoris and she gasps, fisting her hands into the cover. ‘Are you sure?’

‘ _Yes_ , Harry – _please_ –’

‘Like this?’ he asks calmly as he starts to rub firm circles into her clit. ‘Is this what you want?’

‘ _Yes_ , for fuck’s sake –’

All of a sudden, his sticky hand is resting on her thigh. Ginny blinks, her mind foggy.

‘Bad girl,’ he whispers, eyes gleaming. ‘I might have to punish you for being so impatient.’

‘Harry – don’t be so –’

‘Do you want me to touch you again?’

‘What do you think?’ she snaps, folding her arms.

Slowly, as if dealing with Teddy when he’s in a strop, he unfolds her arms and places them by her sides. ‘Do you?’

She closes her eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘Then,’ he says, amusement lacing his tone as he places his hand back on her thigh – higher up, this time, ‘what will you do for me?’

‘Do?’

His hand creeps up and his thumb slides into the wetness between her legs again. ‘Yes. Do. For me.’

‘I’ll –’ The words tumble from her lips before she has a chance to stop them: ‘I’ll suck you off.’

‘Oh, really?’

She can’t take it back now. ‘Really.’

His thumb presses into her clit again and she gasps. ‘That’s an interesting proposal, Ginny …’

An idea occurs to her, and she feels a wide smile spreads its slow way across her face. ‘You know, I always wanted to do that. Give you a blowjob up here.’

‘You did, did you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she says, warming to her theme. ‘I used to think about creeping up in the morning and waking you up with my mouth on your cock; sucking you off while you jerked around and tried to keep quiet so you wouldn’t wake Ron up … Even before we were going out, I used to think about that sort of thing,’ she adds with a bit of a purr, slowly climbing up onto his lap. ‘I used to think about dragging you into a broom cupboard and giving you head between lessons; I used to think about sneaking _into_ your lessons – do you think you would have liked that?’ she whispers, a hand creeping down to cup him through his trousers. ‘A blowjob during Potions, under the desk – if you were very careful, I’m sure no one would ever have noticed. Hmm, Harry? What do you think?’

‘History of Magic, maybe,’ he manages between gritted teeth. ‘Potions, no.’

‘History of Magic?’ she whispers in his ear, her hand sliding its way down into his pants. ‘Where’s the fun in that? You could have had a class-wide orgy on the desks and Binns wouldn’t have noticed – he didn’t even notice when the school was taken over –’

‘But you think _Potions_ would have been a good idea?’

‘Why not?’ As she starts to stroke him, his eyes slide closed; her lips graze his ear. ‘Slughorn would probably have been turned on – you know he always had a soft spot for you –’

‘You’re filthy, Ginny –’ He breaks off with a noise sounding like ‘nnyng’ as she squeezes him.

‘That’s better.’ His eyes close and his face screws up as she starts to jerk her fist. ‘Come on, Harry,’ she whispers. ‘Come for me …’

Suddenly, his eyes fly open, and for a second, they stare into each other’s eyes, completely still. He blinks slowly; Ginny thinks she sees something like anger.

With a strangled grunt, he grabs her wrist and pulls her hand off him, and with his other hand on her leg, he pushes her back down onto the bed; her cry of alarm is muffled by his body climbing on top of hers. He kisses her ferociously; she bites his lower lip. He breaks off the kiss, throws off his glasses and sits up and shucks his t-shirt and jeans at lightning speed; she tries to sit up as well, but he jumps on her and pushes her back down onto the red velvet. With one hand on her cheek and one involved in the business of slightly bending her left leg, he bestows nipping kisses to her cheeks and her jaw. As he travels down her neck, her hands thread their way into his hair and her hips buck against his body. ‘Mmm, Harry,’ she moans; he bites her neck.

Trailing his lips over her still-buttoned shirt, he sucks at her nipples. Cupping one, he bites lightly at the other through the cotton; moaning, her head falls back and her eyes close.

His hands move to her hips and grip her so hard she’s sure there’ll be thumb-shaped bruises tomorrow. Panting heavily, he meets her eyes – and, in a way, his expression looks almost anguished – but he says nothing, and after a second, he rolls to the side to shed his boxers. Twisting back on top of her, he shifts her legs again as, completely naked, now, he aligns himself between her legs.

He thrusts into her quickly, with no warning; her spine rolls as he moans. They sink into a hard and fast rhythm: she, bouncing between him and the bed of the fifth-year, hips moving and hair loose; he, thrusting into her roughly with the odd, Harry-like half-grunts she remembers so well.

Suddenly, he speeds up: she feels the tell-tale abstract jerk in his hips as his thrusts become pounds and she knows he’s close, now, so close –

‘Ginny,’ he cries desperately, ‘Ginny, Ginny, Ginny –’ And all of a sudden she realises he’s _crying_ , he’s crying during sex, and it would have been the perfect thing to rib him about afterwards if it was funny, but it isn’t funny, now, not funny at all –

‘Oh – oh, _God_ –’ she manages as his thrusts become erratic and his eyes squeeze shut and he’s battering into her like he’s trying to break her down –

And then, suddenly, she’s coming: her orgasm bursts through her and she convulses around him and screams. His rough thrusts don’t stop; as everything around her starts to become clear again, she feels him riding her through it, their skin still slapping together –

Then, he comes; with his face buried into her neck his shoots off into her with a few last, jerky thrusts.

They lie there in silence until Ginny stands up, dresses herself, and leaves the room.

 

 

 

 

It’s three in the morning when she hears his footsteps passing her bedroom door.

He must be going down to the kitchen, she thinks. Maybe he can’t sleep either.

She’s been tossing and turning for hours, having gone to bed only shortly after they’d tucked Teddy in, leaving the others to wrap his presents and sneak them into his stocking. An hour or so later, she’d heard them all traipsing upstairs; another hour later, she’d pretended to be asleep as she’d heard the footsteps of her dad creeping across her room to the foot of her bed, where her own stocking was hanging.

And now, it is three in the morning, and if she has slept at all, it’s been fitfully – although, maybe she has, because last she checked the clock, it was only midnight – and she doesn’t know what to do, because she needs to sleep, but she can’t, she just _can’t_ tonight –

She sits up in bed. She’ll follow him down. And talk to him, or something. She’ll figure that out when she gets there.

Getting out of bed, she pulls a jumper over her pyjamas and creeps out of her room. The house is silent and dark, much darker than the flat she’s now living in with her friend Sarah in Birmingham, or Harry’s flat in London: the sky she can see through the windows is not the mixture of purple and amber streetlamp she’s used to but the pure inky blackness of the countryside.

She pads softly down the carpeted corridor and onto the stairs, hoping Harry can’t hear her.

There is something almost sinful about being awake at this time of night on Christmas Eve. There is a real magic going on in the dark hours of this night, she thinks on the last flight of creaky stairs, softening her steps even more. Even at twenty-one, she can’t stop herself from feeling that she’s doing something gravely wrong.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she creeps down the narrow passageway and pushes open the door to the kitchen.

The dark room, lit only by a few candles, is messier than usual, with orange muck on the walls and Satsuma peel littering the floorboards. In the middle of the table, there is an empty whiskey glass and a plate with a few artfully half-eaten mince pies.

He’s standing at the sink in his least favourite blue t-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms, pouring a glass of water.

‘Good morning,’ she says.

He glances up; he seems unsurprised to see her there. Clearly, she hadn’t been as stealthy as she’d thought.

‘What are you down here for?’ he asks her.

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ she says, suddenly feeling very foolish in her pyjamas.

Her feet are bare, she notices. She turns them in a little and wishes she were wearing socks.

His eyes flick from her to the table and back to her again. ‘Thinking the kitchen table might be a good place for it?’

It’s only when he turns back to the sink that she realises she wasn’t supposed to answer, which is a good thing, because she doesn’t know whether he was talking about sleeping on the table, or something else entirely.

She picks her way through the semi-dark and sits down primly. ‘I fancied a mince pie, actually,’ she says, eyeing the mess on the walls. ‘Did you get a little over-enthusiastic?’

Harry shrugs and swallows down a gulp of water. ‘Ron doesn’t seem to think that Rudolph actually eats the carrot. He’s more in favour of the idea that he smashes it all over the walls.’

‘With his hooves?’ she asks; Harry smiles, but doesn’t answer.

Finishing his glass of water in a couple of gargantuan gulps, he turns back to the sink and pours himself another one. ‘Hey, Ginny?’

‘Yeah?’

He turns the tap off. ‘Will you marry me?’

She snorts, but he seems to be waiting for an answer. ‘Er … no?’

He turns around to face her with a shrug and has another gulp of his water.

They stare at each other.

He crosses over to her and sits down at the other side of the table. ‘Ron and Hermione’s American lodger says Americans leave cookies and milk out for Father Christmas.’

‘Cookies? As in, biscuits?’

Harry nods. ‘With chocolate chips.’

Ginny wrinkles her nose. ‘Doesn’t seem very Christmassy.’

Harry breaks a piece of pastry from one of the pies between them. ‘I used to think these were filled with mincemeat.’

‘Same.’ She digs a raisin out from the middle of the pie that Harry’s now exposed and nibbles it. ‘I can’t imagine what Dad would have said if we’d suggested milk as an appropriate drink for Santa. When Ron was six, he got worried that Father Christmas would be too drunk to deliver the presents if he drank Firewhiskey at every house, and he tried to leave him pumpkin juice. Dad was all, “No, no, Father Christmas doesn’t like pumpkin juice, he only drinks Firewhiskey”.’

Harry laughs. ‘Vernon’s response would probably have been similar. Only with normal whiskey. Muggle whiskey.’

‘The Dursleys did Father Christmas?’ asks Ginny, cocking an eyebrow.

‘Yeah.’ Harry shrugs. ‘Sort of.’

He fiddles with his hands.

‘You didn’t get a stocking, did you?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘You don’t want to talk about it, do you?’

‘Not much.’

She eats another raisin.

‘But, you know, it’s weird,’ he says abruptly. ‘I haven’t had Christmas with the Dursleys for twelve years. Since I was ten. I don’t even …’ His voice is slightly incredulous. ‘I don’t even remember it that well.’

‘You’ve had more Christmases with us than them.’

He furrows his brow; she can tell from the way his eyes are moving that he’s counting. ‘Yeah …’ he says slowly. ‘Yeah – eleven with you, ten with them.’

‘No – you’re twenty-two. Twelve with us.’

‘1997,’ he says dryly. ‘I spent it with Godric’s Hollow, Hermione and Voldemort. That one might have been worse than a Christmas with the Dursleys.’

‘That’s two with your parents.’

‘What?’

‘Two. Once then, and once when you were a baby, silly.’

They fall silent. Ginny looks out of the window and watches the wind rattling the glass panes. When she looks back at Harry, she sees a self-conscious smile spreading over his face. Her heart skips at the thought that she had something to do with it.

He clears his throat and the beam subsides. ‘I haven’t see the Dursleys in ages … I think I haven’t seen them since Christmas two years ago.’

She shakes her head. ‘It was last Christmas.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah. The twenty-first of December, 2001. It was the same day I was promoted to the first team.’

‘Wow,’ he says. Then, quieter: ‘It’s been a long year.’

She nods.

He looks mournful in the half-light.

She rests her chin on her hand. ‘Harry,’ she sighs. ‘What are we doing?’

‘I don’t know.’ She sees the reflection of the candlelight flickering on his glasses. ‘I don’t – Ginny, I’m sorry for –’

‘Don’t be,’ she says softly. Whatever it is, she doesn’t want to hear it.

‘But –’

‘Sorry for what?’ She attempts a grin. ‘Crying during sex?’

He winces. ‘Oh. So you saw that.’

‘Sorry for your proposal? You better not be. That was my first one.’

‘I meant it, you know.’

She shuts her open mouth abruptly. ‘You meant it.’

‘Yes.’

‘About marriage.’

‘Yes.’

‘I …’ There is absolutely nothing to say to that, so Ginny shrugs in the way he did earlier and reaches for another mince pie. With her thumb, she slices the pastry top off and hands it to Harry; silently, he takes it and starts eating. She plucks out another raisin from the centre. ‘You know, these are illegal in Muggle law.’

‘I don’t think that’s right, Gin.’

‘It’s true. A Muggle banned eating mince pies on Christmas Day, and the law was never repealed. It’s still illegal.’

‘Wow.’

‘I know.’

He looks down at his hands. ‘Sorry,’ he says softly.

She sighs.

‘I didn’t …?’

She knows he wants to say _scare you?_ but she also knows that he knows she’d hit him if he dared. ‘Well, I have been wondering what’s wrong with my feet.’

‘What?’

‘My feet,’ she says. ‘You wouldn’t let me take my socks off.’

He shrugs. ‘Socks are sexy.’

‘You’re not serious.’

‘No. Just …’ He shrugs again in the awkward manner Harry always assumes when sex works its way into normal conversation. Or into any kind of conversation. ‘I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But sorry for causing offence. You have very nice feet.’

‘Look.’ She wriggles her toes. ‘I painted my toenails. Red, for Christmas.’

He cranes his head down to look under the table, laughing. ‘Very nice.’

He sits up again and stares at her.

She rests her chin back on her hand. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Marry me, Ginny.’

‘Stop saying that.’

‘Start taking it seriously, then.’

‘But …’ She looks down at the matching chipped red polish on her fingernails, and for some reason, finds herself taking his suggestion seriously. ‘Harry, I’m only twenty-one. You’re only twenty-two.’

‘I don’t mean right now.’ He reaches across and draws her hands into his; she stares at his big, warm hands and doesn’t look up. ‘I mean in the foreseeable future.’

‘But –’

‘Ginny,’ he says so fiercely that she looks up and into his eyes – eyes that have abandoned their usual bright green to burn darkly. ‘I love you. I love you, Ginny, and I want to marry you because I want to live with you forever and I want to have children with you and – and – and because I don’t think I can live, without you, very well.’ It is his turn to develop a sudden fascination with their interlocked hands. ‘It doesn’t work.’

‘Only because we’re not practiced at it. Living without each other.’

‘That’s not right,’ he amends sharply. ‘That’s not what I mean. I _can_ live without you, I don’t _need_ you – I can eat, live, sleep, breathe without you. I can function. I’ll be fine, eventually. But I don’t –’ He looks directly into her eyes. ‘I don’t want to be fine. I don’t need you, I _want_ you.’

‘Harry …’ Out of nowhere, she feels a tear sliding down her cheek. ‘Harry …’

‘Ginny, please, let’s end this. It’s stupid. I love you. So let’s …’ He stops and withdraws one of his hands to wipe at his eyes, under his glasses. ‘Fuck, you’re making me go off again. Do …’ He looks up. ‘Do you still love me?’

She’s crying in earnest, now. ‘Yes.’

‘Then let’s _end_ this,’ he says again. ‘I don’t want the single life. I just want you.’

She looks down at their hands again. ‘You should get down on one knee.’

‘I’d get carrot on my pyjamas.’

She laughs shakily, and then sniffs. ‘Harry … Harry, there are reasons we broke up. Just because we’re cooped up in the house and we do stupid things doesn’t mean that we should just …’ She has to sniff violently to stop herself from crying again. ‘Let’s … let’s be sensible …’

‘I am being sensible. We’ll move. I’ll stop borrowing your money. I’ll tell Sirius he can stuff his stupid inheritance and – and give it all to McGonagall’s retirement fund, and – and I’ll have serious conversations with you, if you really want, and I won’t care if you pay me no attention, and I won’t mind when you scream at me in public –’

‘I didn’t pay you no attention,’ she protests, wiping at her eyes. ‘And I … I _won’t_ scream at you in public, or – no – no, Harry, I’m not – we’re not doing this! I can’t – we mustn’t –’

‘Ginny …’ he says, tightening his grip on her hands and stroking them with his thumbs. ‘You didn’t get me a Christmas present. Taking this seriously is the least you can do.’

‘You didn’t get me one, either.’

‘I’ll buy you a ring.’

‘Let’s elope,’ she half-sobs, half-laughs. ‘Let’s do it now, and turn up tomorrow with rings and tell them it was because we hadn’t got each other Christmas presents …’

‘All right, then. If that’s what you want.’

‘I was joking.’

‘Good, because I think your mum would kill me.’

‘Harry …’

‘Gin …’ He leans across the table and touches her face. ‘I –’

Jumping up, he goes around the table to her side, and all of a sudden, he’s on the floor. He’s not quite kneeling, but rather, crouching: balancing on his heels, he looks into her eyes. ‘Ginny …’

With a whimper, she slides off her chair and tumbles onto his lap; he falls down into a sitting position. She wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face into it.

His hands are reassuring on her waist. ‘Ginny,’ he whispers, ‘will you marry me?’

‘No.’

His grip on her waist tightens. After a second, she hears him sigh and feels his head sink down onto her shoulder.

She sits up straight. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

His head darts up. ‘You want to get back together, then?’

She nods; she can’t bring herself to speak.

‘Really?’

She swallows. ‘Really really.’

One of the warm hands on her waist climbs up to rest on her cheek. ‘You can cry if you want,’ he whispers earnestly.

Mouth trembling, she shakes her head vehemently, but even as she shakes it from side to side, she can feel large tears squeezing their ways out of the corners. He grins and gently uses his thumbs to wipe them away. ‘I love you, Ginny.’

‘Same here,’ she whimpers. Snorting impatiently at herself, she wipes at her face roughly with the back of her hand. ‘I love you, too.’

His grin stretches, and leaning forwards, he kisses her mouth.

Their lips barely touch, but it’s enough. She tucks her head into the crook of his neck; he wraps an arm around her waist again and brings one hand up to play with her hair.

They sit in silence.

‘So,’ he says after a second, ‘am I to take it that my marriage proposal has been rejected?’

‘Try again next Christmas,’ she mumbles into his neck.

She can’t see his face, but somehow, she knows he’s grinning.

 

 

 

 

THE END

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was originally posted on Livejournal [here](http://kissesforcrises.livejournal.com/5813.html).
> 
> The ending of this story was illustrated beautifully by the wonderful reallycorking, [here](http://corkart.livejournal.com/22777.html?mode=reply)!! (safe for work)
> 
> ♥


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